


record scratch

by petasos



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sex, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, Quadrant Confusion, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited, Unrequited Kismesissitude, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 21:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20160124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petasos/pseuds/petasos
Summary: It's fine and swell and dandy.





	record scratch

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this to deal with some rp feelings, but left it open so you can picture whoever you want.

Sometimes you let yourself daydream a little. You know it's not healthy - you know you shouldn't. You know you should let yourself get over it, move on, pretend it's okay until it is okay but that's easier said than done, now isn't it?

Maybe you're a masochist, maybe shoving your face in your boyfriend's pillow while thinking about him in ways you shouldn't is just hurting you more than you'd like to think. But here is the fact of the matter: he loves you in flush, in red, a bright fucking fluffy ass red heart all filled up to the brim with lovely joyful happy feelings. He sends you hearts and calls you his and he loves you like that, like mate loves mate, loves you like two regular humans would, and that's fine and swell and dandy and you're a-okay 100% fine never-been-better with this fact of life, with the knowledge that he's all heart eyes for your fine ass.

Except that you're more than a little pitch for him, and he's got a kismesis, and his kismesis does not at all want you encroaching on his toes.

It's like a record scratch, flipping - abrupt and sudden and annoying as fuck, like a song skipping a beat or your computer glitching during the chorus or your headphones dying on you. It's like someone shoving their unfinished sandwich at you and going, "hey, eat this even though I already ate most of it and you definitely do not want to get my spit in your mouth." It's like losing progress when you're working on your greatest song yet, turning out some ill beats that sound sicker than some guy with measles. It comes out of nowhere, it's wrong, and you'd do anything to go back on it, but you can't until whatever reason for flipping subsides and you can go back to ignoring the gaping hole in your stomach, the one you can't fill or stitch closed or fix.

You love your boyfriend so much, more than anything - being with him is like having the entire fucking world given to you on a silver platter. He's smart, sexy, funny, he's sweet and got the finest fucking ass ever, got a bitching voice and the arms of some Greek god sculpture. He's everything you ever wanted in a partner. Everything except a few things, but it's easy to overlook the things that hurt - that he doesn't want a family for a long time, that he doesn't want to marry you ever, that he can't be tied down. It hurts, but that's okay, because you're okay with that, you have him and that's what matters.

And you _know _he wouldn't mind you daydreaming, because he's perfect and incredible and puts up with your shit, because he loves you and deals with your garbage, because he's the reason you do better, why you've come so far.

He doesn't flip back, doesn't share your feelings, but that's okay. You don't want them anyway.

Sure, it's nice to imagine. It's nice to picture him bickering with you, pulling you in for a rougher than usual kiss. It's fine, knowing he's never going to do everything he can to beat you at arcade games because he's gotta be better than you. It's great, knowing strifing will never be foreplay for you like it is for him and his kismesis.

You've never seen him in pitch. You don't know how he'd act. He once told you that you'd be horrible pitchmates, that you'd just hurt each other - he's probably right, he always is. Maybe you'd just let him. Maybe he'd leave you bruises and scars and you'd be fine with that. He took a chunk out of his kismesis' shoulder once - at least they're both gods.

Sometimes you jerk off thinking about how he must look, with his kismesis on top of him. You wonder if his nails dig into skin, if his teeth imbed in his shoulder, if they draw blood when they fuck. You're never actually satisfied when you come - it just kind of _hurts_, bone deep, like someone speared you through your stomach and left you to die and rot away, birds pecking at your eye sockets when you've deteriorated into bone. You feel like you're some faceless, nameless John Doe in a morgue, skin burnt beyond recognition. They can't even piece your skull back together properly, can't figure out who the fuck you are, if anyone even misses you.

Maybe he'd cover you in bites and hickeys just after making out, you pressed to the floor and trying to push him off. Maybe he'd shove his hand down your pants and not care if he grips too hard, his teeth on your clavicle, his mouth in the hollow of your neck. Maybe he'd be close enough to rip your throat open, but he wouldn't, because he needs you, needs you alive and well just so he can beat you, be better, be stronger.

You wonder if he'd push you til you break. You wonder if he'd show you a side of himself you've never seen.

If the world came to an end and you got the chance to do one thing, you'd want that, just that one thing - to know how he'd look at you; to know how he'd see you.

Maybe it's unhealthy to daydream. It's just pouring salt in your wounds, trying to ruin what little you've sewn up. Maybe sitting in the shower under boiling hot water would be more useful in the long run, maybe you could scrub off every inch of skin until there's nothing left and it's raw and red but it's not skin you've flipped with. Maybe you could tear out your bones, replace them with metal - then you wouldn't feel it anymore, deep enough that it feels like scar tissue will come of the ache. Maybe you'd be better off slicing your arms open or ruining your progress of staying sober or fucking some stranger until you feel so worthless and disgusting that you go numb.

But better off isn't what you do.

Maybe pitch isn't for you, and maybe you feeling it's a fluke, 'cause humans aren't supposed to feel it, right? You're a freak of nature who flips on his boyfriend, smears too much, can't keep it in one quad. You don't deserve it, anyways, you're an emotionally manipulative mess who just sits around and has a huge ass pity party thinking about how much it fucking sucks to loathe the person who loves you most in the world.

You'd like to think his hands would be a little rougher than your own. You'd like to think he'd shove you against a wall and kiss you like he doesn't want you to dissipate. You'd like to think that maybe, just maybe, in a perfect world, your boyfriend would grab a fistful of hair and yank it, slam his hips against yours, and tell you he hates you, tell you he wants you, and tell you that you'd be a fucking great kismesis.

But this isn't a perfect world, obviously - the closest to pitch you'll ever come is burying your face in his pillow, wearing his shirt, and praying for a miracle to thread that hole up.

The closest thing to having a kismesis you'll ever get is your hand, a little too rough, or a vibrator or dildo or literally anything you can get your hands on that'll work as a placeholder, even if there's nothing to hold for. But it works, for a few seconds, if you ignore the lack of weight pressing into you, ignore that your hand is distinctly your own, ignore that his teeth don't bite into your skin and nobody says anything (but you call for him when you come, even if there's no reply.)

And when the record goes back, you just feel sick and worthless, like dirty laundry at a laundromat where someone pours bleach in your clothes and lets them marinate in the shit overnight, ruins your favorite pair of jeans, except they're hypothetical jeans at a hypothetical laundromat that exists in a shitty metaphor you lost track of a long time ago.

You wonder if you'll always feel that ache, or if someday it'll fade, like the scars across your skin that make you look like a veteran of some long forgotten war. You've got scratches from him, from plain regular bdsm-y sex where you tend to top, and you rip those scabs open so they scar, and you know you'll probably always feel it, 'til Heroic or Just death do you part.

(Seeing the smirk when he texts his kismesis is worth it, and for a split second, you can pretend it's you.)


End file.
